The office felt more animated than when she’d left it. Fox was first to give her the news.

‘The white coats at the lab got into the victim’s phone,’ he announced, leading her to the printer, which was churning out copies for everyone. ‘Last text he sent was to Rob Driscoll.’

‘His pal from Tynecastle.’

‘Driscoll was after a meet, and Haggard agreed.’

Clarke looked at the transcript of the exchange. It was fairly one-sided, Driscoll asking eight or nine times for Haggard to talk to him, eventually eliciting a short reply:

I’ll get back to you when I’ve had a think where.

Timed at 6.40 p.m. on Francis Haggard’s last day alive.

‘Nothing after that?’ she checked.

‘One further nudge from Driscoll.’ Fox pointed it out to her. ‘Sent just after midnight.’

‘By which time Haggard was already dead?’

He nodded.

‘Anything else?’

‘A bunch of unanswered calls and texts to his wife, some of them from the hours after he burst into her sister’s house.’

‘Any chance we can find out where he was when he made them?’

‘Phone company reckon they can triangulate, but it’s not likely to give us much more than a general area.’

‘It would still help cut down the amount of pubs we’d otherwise have to contact.’

Fox nodded again. ‘If we’re about to start pulling in the Crew for interview, looks like Rob Driscoll should be our primary focus.’

Clarke locked eyes with him. ‘You told me Complaints have had Tynecastle on their radar for years – we need access to those files.’

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘My ex-colleagues can be wary of ­sharing.’

‘Understandably so, but a word from the ACC might prise open the vault.’

‘I suppose I could suggest it.’

‘A quick result would be in her interests; make sure she understands that.’

‘Okay, but I want a favour in return.’

‘What?’

‘Something tells me you’ll be going out tonight.’

Clarke was pulled up short, wondering how he knew. But then she realised he didn’t mean Michael Leckie. To reinforce the point, he did a little shuffle, wiggling his hips, elbows jutting.

‘That’s not how human beings dance,’ she told him.

‘I’m right, though, aren’t I? You want a look at DJ Gabz in her natural environment.’

‘Which is very far from your natural environment, Malcolm.’

‘I’m sure I’ve got a party shirt somewhere in my wardrobe. What time are you thinking of going?’

‘I doubt anything much will happen before ten.’ She saw doubt enter his mind. ‘Maybe even eleven,’ she added, hoping to strengthen the deterrent. Instead, he shrugged his acceptance.

‘We need those files today,’ she stressed.

‘I’ll get on it,’ Fox answered, heading to his desk.

Clarke sat down at her own desk and noticed that Christine Esson was glaring at her.

‘What?’